


Brooklyn Baby

by RobbieTurner



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Daddy Kink, HYDRA Trash Party, Hydra (Marvel), I'm so sorry, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, all my fanfics shall be named after Lana del Rey songs apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:44:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobbieTurner/pseuds/RobbieTurner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"The Asset's mind is a symphony in blank. They took all the pretty notes from his previous life and composed a new one, erased and remade every two months or so, when some of the bright music of his past starts to come back. In the meanwhile, you write in him your own contributions."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Alexander Pierce plays with this toy. Shameless PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brooklyn Baby

**Author's Note:**

> So I fell into the trash can and never managed to get out. This fic happens after Bucky is wiped out and before he's sent after Steve again.  
> I'm so sorry Bucky.

 

 

Here’s the bed where lays your sleeping beauty of one thousand killings. Here are yours arms around him.

Held by you like a doll, and by you made sharp as violin strings, the Winter Soldier knows these arms. These arms are the world.  
  
The Asset's mind is a symphony in blank. They took all the pretty notes from his previous life and composed a new one, erased and remade every two months or so, when some of the bright music of his past starts to come back. In the meanwhile, you write in him your own contributions.   
  
Your word is law.

He is yours and you love him. 

Your name is Alexander Pierce, but he knows you as  _Daddy._    
  
The winter doll blinks, heavy lashes falling over his beautiful killer's eyes. The Asset is always his sweetest when he wakes up, reminding you of a child who is yet to know what death is.   
  
"How are you feeling, sweetheart?"   
  
Defrosted, his brain is a little slow at first. You love him like this.   
  
"Cold." He manages, and waits for your next command. He's getting in shape now, his body waking up under you gaze like an old musket being oiled before a deadly shot.  
  
"We can't have that now, can we?" You say, as if addressing a child. It always feels like Christmas morning when you get to enjoy him. Most of HYDRA doesn't know of his existence and the few who do fear him. Except for you. You see him for what he is: an opportunity to play God. 

"I will give you the target soon," you say, gently "But first, let's warm you up."

It's a ritual, now, and his body remembers and reacts like an actor recalling his lines. Poor, pavlovian thing. Your will unfolds in his skin mercilessly.    
  
"Yes, please Daddy, warm me up."   
  
The soldier answers in words that for him are no more than meaningless sounds, and spread his legs wide. He's naked and you look at him for a few moments, at his hairless chest, his rose nipples, the place where meat merges with metal. You sit next to him, bringing with you the lube and part the Asset's buttocks, exposing his hole. He's hairless down there too, groomed and clean and pink and fuckable. Not just a weapon, but a sex toy as well.   
  
Ignoring completely the soldier's hardening cock, you trace his rim with a lubed finger and then, languidly, start to finger fuck him.   
  
"You will call for me each and every time you feel pleasure." You order, inserting another finger, and hitting the place that tears the immediate response from the Soldier's throat: An obedient, moaned  _Daddy,_ which he keeps repeating, dutiful little thing he is, as you keep hitting his prostate. He’s not sure where to look; he has a vague idea of what is happening to him. It’s sweet; almost as if he is becomes a virgin again in his winter sleep; a maiden of fear and ice and forever, a distorted fairy tale that you never fail to defile.

 You stop your ministrations, and your fingers make an obscene  _pop_ sound when leaving him, as if it was a wet cunt you were fingering. He’s fully hard now, and tortured, moaning with these snow-white-red-as-blood-lips of his. You could leave him like this, unsatisfied, for hours. In fact you did, once or twice. It was fun, but you are feeling more urgent yourself tonight.

 “Stand up. Take five steps away from the bed. Get on all fours and crawl back to me.”

You sit on the edge of the bed while he does it, and part your legs, watching him obeying your orders. He’s not elegant, but he’s enticing without knowing so. He ignores that what is happening is sex, he sees this as one of the few good things that happen when he’s out of ice. This strange, pleasurable interlude between missions, like the strawberries he’s fed from time to time, or the soft bed he gets to sleep on one night or two. Small luxuries that he doesn’t understand.  What a magnanimous father figure you are. It’s adorable, actually. He doesn’t know he’s being raped.

 “Now be a good boy,” you say, as he reaches you, the tip of his nose almost touching the fabric of your pants. “And suck Daddy’s cock.”

 These are the words you've heard in movies no one thinks you would watch. These are filthy words, spoken by people worth less than your suit. These are the words he awakens in you. Here’s this boy, this toy, this asset – that arouses in you hungers unknown to your wife, your lover, or the maid. He’s unfastening your trousers now, and taking your cock out, which he promptly puts in his mouth. You grab a handful of his long hair and make him  _take it._ He doesn’t know how to tease or how to pretend he loves getting his mouth fucked, but he does a good job at relaxing his throat and letting you use him.

 “That’s it,” you encourage him, without need. He would choke on your dick if you commanded him to. “That’s it, sweetheart. So good for Daddy.” You pull his head back, and connecting his lips to your cock is a thin string of saliva.

 “Come here,” you say, slightly out of breath. “So I can fuck you properly.”

 He does and you take off your pants. Properly means having him on his hands and knees and then on his back, his legs thrown over your shoulder. Properly means making him moan and whine and feel what no machine can erase. Your cock is deep inside his sweet, tight little ass, and in his body you lay what makes you so fit to be HYDRA’s director.

 “Look at me.” He does, with eyes vacant and blue. Sometimes things get through; sometimes he cries without knowing why, sometimes he wakes up screaming out of dreams he can’t entirely recall, sometimes he will curl next to you like a kitten seeking warmth. _‘Did you dream of red again?’_  you will ask, petting his hair. Most of the time he’ll say yes. Sometimes he will not be a doll, but a human trapped in one. Sometimes you’ll almost pity him.

 “Daddy!” he cries out, surprised at the treasons his body holds. “Daddy!” he cries out, and this word almost means what it means, because you could convince him of that if you wanted to, you could.

 You make him come. You order him to. And then soon you follow, relishing in the way he tightens against you, painting his insides with your seed.

 The bed is where you leave him, as one would a used whore. He looks like one now, stained red lips and messy hair. Written in this mattress, a poem of filth and beauty abused.

 Alexander, you are not only a conqueror, but also an artist.

 “Your target,” you say, and show him the picture of the man on the bridge, the one he knew. He looks at him vaguely, and his eyes know him no more. “Yes, Daddy.” The asset answers.

 You exit the room feeling like a good person.

 

 

End

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for any mistakes, english is not my first language. BelleLorage was kind enough to beta the fic for me, so any remaining grammar errors are my fault. I hope you enjoyed reading it. Kudos and comments are very appreciated.


End file.
